


Beginnings

by veretianblue (clptr)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Getting Together, Laurent definitely doesn't pay attention to Damen's muscles, M/M, POV Laurent (Captive Prince), canon AU, nope - Freeform, not at all, overcoming a bit of prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clptr/pseuds/veretianblue
Summary: Laurent, prince of Vere and heir presumptive to his yet-unmarried brother, King Auguste, is sent on a diplomatic mission, where he meets Damianos of Akielos.





	Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Josselin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/gifts).



> Dear Joss, you were one of my inspirations for actually participating in the Captive Prince fandom and starting to write (again). I still need lots of practice with everything, but I do hope you'll enjoy this fic! Happy extremely belated Secret Santa!
> 
> Many thanks to the mods for organizing this so well, a very special thank you to [entity_sylvir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entity_Sylvir/pseuds/Entity_Sylvir) for her constant and amazing support and EXTRA SPECIAL THANKS with cherries on top and whatever else her heart desires to [l_cloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy) for putting up with me, stepping in to save this fic (If you see a particularly brilliant sentence - or paragraph!! - it’s likely her doing, not mine ^.~), and being absolutely awesome!

As the servant bowed out of the room, closing the door with nary a sound, Laurent surveyed himself in the floor-length mirror. The outfit, dark blue with silver embroidery, sat precisely laced and fitted on his body. His hair was caught up in an elaborate Veretian braid, keeping it both appropriately arranged and out of his eyes, for full visibility. A thin golden circlet sat on top of his tresses and a white diagonal sash, made of the finest Kemptian silk, marked his status as ambassador.  


With the servant dismissed, Laurent was now free to complete the outfit with the rest of his accessories. The ring on the right hand, the starburst etched into the sapphire, he normally wore as heir presumptive to his brother, King Auguste - although, in truth, Laurent put it on not for political reasons, but with gratitude for this token of his brother’s trust. Tonight, for the banquet, he added two more rings to his left hand, each with a different poison - one lethal, one not - hidden in their hollowed gemstones. Small, finely sharpened daggers went in each of his highly polished black boots. The parade sword, with its elaborate filigree pommel he buckled around his waist, secure in the knowledge it had been wrought from the strongest steel with as much dedication and precision as any battle sword. It too had been recently sharpened.  


He was ready to face the barbarian court he had been sent to as ambassador.  


His guard flanked him as soon as he stepped out of the rooms. Laurent said nothing, but ran his eyes over their outfits and form. Good. Everything was up to standard. He strode forward, making his way toward the large throne room where the guests were to congregate before the meal proper.  


The barbarian palace was, Laurent had to admit, not inelegant in its simplicity, the natural pattern of the marble compensating the lack of ornamentation. Tonight he was to meet the King and attend a seven-course banquet, specially designed for the Veretian delegation.  


He reached the gilt wooden doors with no trouble, although he had expected none. So far, the hospitality extended to him had been impeccable. On his approach, the heralds sounded trumpets.  


Torveld came forward to greet him.  


“Welcome to Bazal, Prince Laurent. It is my great pleasure that we are able to return the hospitality you and your brother showed me this past summer.”  


Ostensibly, Laurent was there to discuss a trade treaty. The main reason, though, was to evaluate the suitability of Ingrid, the only daughter of King Torgeir, as a possible bride for Auguste.  


After having greeted the Patran King with due courtesies, Laurent was free to take in the people thronging the throne room. The Patran royal family was easily identifiable. The nobles of the court seemed to share the penchant for plotting as the courtiers Laurent usually saw every day, although on first glance, this bunch seemed less sharp than their Veretian counterparts. There were slaves in the hall as well as servants, Laurent noted with disgust.  


Torveld extricated himself from a conversation nearby and came forward even before Laurent was quite done with his own. With him was another man, nearly a head taller than all his companions, who stood out from anyone else in the hall. His musculature was in proportion to his uncommon height. Laurent felt his body react involuntarily, jaw clenching.  


Before he could say anything, Torveld spoke. “We are happy to enjoy not only your esteemed company tonight, but also that of another illustrious guest. Let me introduce you to the Prince of Akielos.”  


Laurent did not want to make nice with the barbarian who had defeated Auguste at Marlas. Still, the man was heir to the Akielon throne and led armies. Despite his reluctance, Laurent attempted to think of something suitably diplomatic.  


“Your reputation precedes you.” The words came out rather bitingly, unaccompanied by any acknowledgement of the man's title. Well. Perhaps Auguste did have a point when he called Laurent ‘impulsive’.  


The man ran his dark-eyed gaze over the length of Laurent’s entire body, taking him in slowly. Finally, their eyes met. Damianos’ face had a certain slack-jawed quality to it and his eyes seemed even darker now. It was a look Laurent was well-used to seeing on people who met him for the first time. Torveld had worn it too, a year ago.  


Damianos finally spoke. “So does yours,” he said.  


That was unexpected. Laurent blinked softly, trying to figure out what Damianos was referencing. “Oh?” he said, in an attempt to elicit more information.  


“I actually had been looking forward to making your acquaintance,” Damianos continued. He had a low voice, like slow-flowing honey, with a hint of rumbling. “There is something I would like to tell you,” he added, a bit hesitatingly, as if searching for words.  


It would not be the first time he was propositioned so fast. He would never, not with an Akielon and certainly not with this Akielon, but it might prove fruitful to lead him on for a while. Laurent made sure to look up through his eyelashes. “Yes?”  


Damianos looked him straight in the eyes. “Please stop inciting the people in Delpha to rebellion.”  


_Shit_. They’d cottoned on, then. Laurent allowed a slight frown to cross his face. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning?”  


“The new epic songs, singing the glory of Vere. The travelling theater players, mocking Akielon rule. The merchants praising the Veretian tax system - shall I go on?“  


Laurent made sure his visage betrayed nothing as he said, “What have I to do with those?”  


They must have a spy in the court at Arles or one of the border lords had let something slip. Or both. There was always the possibility that the Akielons had figured it out themselves, but that was too remote.  


There was no reply, just a long, searching look. The corners of his mouth were downturned in a frown.  


“It is dishonourable,” Damianos finally said.  


How dare the barbarian speak of honour? Who had been the one to ride from behind the lines at Marlas, armour pristine, to duel a man who’d already had half a day’s battle under his belt?  


“You’ve ripped the children of Delfeur from their homes to take them into slavery,” Laurent said, in a vicious hiss. “You have no honour.”  


And he strode away, leaving Damianos behind him.

* * *

There were other events after the banquet, to provide the guests with an array of entertainments as diverse as possible. The barbed remarks Laurent and Damianos had taken to trading tended to make even equable Torveld uncomfortable. And so he should be, in Laurent’s opinion. Why had he thought having both Veretian and Akielon royalty together was a good idea?  


Laurent also spent his time in meetings, affecting concern over the customs tariffs for Kemptian silk and sparkling Toutaine wine and unobtrusively steering conversations with nobles and servants towards the topic of the royal family and princess in Ingrid in particular. It seemed she was strong-willed, occasionally diplomatic, fairly intelligent and keen on her swordwork. She was not unlike her family in those respects, while Patras as a nation, despite its foreign and sometimes barbarous customs, had the potential to prove a reliable and helpful ally. Laurent was cautiously optimistic about the prospect.  


Today’s event was especially to Laurent’s taste. They were to head out north, in the direction of the old capital at Lamark, on a ride. Laurent’s mare was eager for exercise and Laurent talked to her softly as he waited for the riding party to assemble.  


He caught sight of Damianos in the yard, caressing the flank of an imposing stallion. A strong-looking creature, but too bulky to serve for any scope but making his rider look even more grotesquely tall than he already was. As was often the case when confronted with this irritating man, the thought flew unchecked out of his mouth.  


“I wouldn’t say so.” Damianos seemed unfazed by Laurent’s words. He merely smiled, mildly, as insufferably self-assured as always. “My horse has served me well in the past. Or are you afraid I could outride you?”  


“As if,” Laurent said.  


He climbed into the saddle with all of his grace, conscious of Damianos’s eyes on him.  


They were a few miles from the palace when Damianos brought his stallion to ride flank to flank with Laurent’s mare. “I have a suggestion to make. I’ve heard that you challenged Torveld to a horse race last year in Arles, for the price of his personal bedslave.”  


Auguste had forbidden Laurent to say anything against the customs of their honoured guests, and Laurent prided himself on obedience to his King. But he’d won the wager fair and square, and set the slave boy free. He smiled to himself at the memory.  


“I have,” he said. “What about it?”  


Damianos’s smile told him that this was the answer he’d hoped to hear. “Perhaps you might like a different wager, then.”  


The race Damianos proposed would be longer than any Laurent had run in the past. The terms were simple: the first one to reach their destination and double back to Bazal would win. It would be a test of endurance as well as speed, and Laurent felt himself grow intrigued at the suggestion.  


“Alright,” he said. “And when I win, what will I get?”  


“ _If_ you win, I will stay out of your way,” Damianos said. “If I win, I expect you to recognise my victory in front of our Patran hosts.”  


Laurent didn’t deign that with a reply. “Count of three,” he said instead.”Three, two…”  


He pressed his heels against the flanks of his mare and rode off, feeling a surge of excitement at the sensation of the wind on his face, the rhythmic jolt of the hooves against the dusty road. He caught a glimpse of Damianos riding at his side, body bent on the saddle and eyes intent. 

_Good_ , Laurent thought. This would be better with some real competition.  


He laughed to himself, and the wind carried it away.  


The air was heavy and warm with summer, and the sky lightly spotted with grey. Yet they’d barely made it a couple miles before the world around them turned a few shades darker. Fast-blowing clouds, obscuring the sun. Laurent considered calling off the race, but Damianos was still hot on his heels, and he wouldn’t give up first.  


When the downpour started, it was sudden. The rain fell thick and the surroundings were unfamiliar, their guides left behind with the rest of the party.  


They had no oiled leathers to protect them and the horses were restless with the quick bursts of loud thunder. Through the darkened landscape and sheets of pouring rain, it became difficult to chose a path. Laurent turned his horse in a slow circle, taking stock of their surroundings.  


“There!” shouted Damianos at the same time Laurent himself spotted it. “That outcropping of rocks!”  


They dismounted, for the ground there was littered with sharp rocks that might prove dangerous for the horses in the rain, and made their way there, no further words needed. Laurent hoped it formed some sort of cave that would protect at least their horses from the rain.  


It did.  


It also held quite a number of men with wild hair, mismatched clothes and armed to the teeth. Laurent blinked, taken aback by the unexpected display. Who would...  


“Laurent!” Damianos called out from behind him, grabbing Laurent’s shoulder just in time to pull him back as one of the men swung a long spear in the narrow space between them. The tip of it was metal, Laurent noted absent-mindedly, mean-looking and slightly rusty. If Damianos hadn’t pulled him away…  


“They’re Vaskian raiders,” Damianos said, urgently. “Torveld was telling me just last night that some stray bands have crossed the border and are hiding among the hills here.”  


Vaskian raiders, clanless men by the look of them, miles and miles away from any of the women clans or the power of the Empress. Laurent didn’t like this. He considered the number of raiders, the odds that just two men, even better trained, had against them and the raiders’ obvious familiarity with the area. “We might be better off retreating,” he proposed.  


“I don’t think we have that option,” Damianos said wryly as the men surrounded them and grabbed hold of their horses’ reins.  


_Fuck_.  


They needed to put something at their backs - but in that sea of men, lightning glinting off their chipped grins and drawn blades, there was nothing except each other. A wave of disgust rose in Laurent at the thought of having to fight together with the one man alive that he hated most, but he stamped down on. _Priorities. Must get out of this alive first._  


He drew his sword.  


“What are you doing?” It was Damianos, sounding surprised. Had the man been knocked on his head?  


“Fighting,” Laurent explained what should have been obvious, making sure to enunciate.  


“I’ll clear a way to the rocks,” Damianos said, frowning. “Just get there and stay safe. I’ll deal with this bunch.”  


Laurent felt his posture, already in attack stance, become even crisper. His lips pursed. “I beg your pardon,” he said icily. “Are you implying I cannot fight?”  


“Can you?” Damianos said, appearing thrown by the possibility.  


Nostrils flaring, Laurent entertained the possibility of doing away with Damianos as well, after they dispelled the Vaskian raiders. He could think of three different scenarios off the top of his head that would work excellently to rid himself of the annoying Prince of Akielos.  


“ _Auguste himself trained me,_ ” he said in a biting hiss. He would be happy to show Damianos later if he really was so curious, too.  


The raiders must have decided they were easy enough prey at this point, for they attacked en masse with a common shout. Laurent put his back to Damianos’s, noting in passing that Damianos had slid into position without further argument, and dispatched the two men in front of him. They had no skills or finesse, as expected, and Laurent found them predictable in their every move. It was barely a challenge to confuse their expectations of where he would strike; he got more of a workout by having to keep an eye on attackers from the sides too, and timing his movements just so, in order to get all of them and protect his partner’s back.  


Laurent spun, going under an attacker’s guard and causing him to crumple to the ground, and used the same momentum to deliver a blow to another’s head with the sword pommel. He came back in position at Damianos’s back and kept fighting.  


He would begin to tire soon, but before he could devise a plan that might clear the way without swordwork, the men that were still able to stand turned and ran as one towards what looked like a forest in the distance.  


Laurent blinked. Were they actually retreating, or was it a trap? He scanned the surroundings carefully. The rain had slowed and the sky was lightening to the west. There were no other people to be seen, other than the men running for the forest.  


“Well,” Damianos said. “It seems we’ve driven them off.”  


“Apparently.” It didn’t seem to be a trap, and Laurent doubted that stray Vaskian clansmen were capable of such sophistication, but he still spoke with caution. “We shouldn’t give them any more chances to come after us,” he suggested. “I say we ride back to Bazal.”  


Damianos nodded. Then he chuckled to himself, throwing back his head as he smiled, and he looked suddenly younger and softer than the brute warrior Laurent had come to know.  


“You know,” he said, “if you wanted to call off the race you should’ve just said that, instead of getting us attacked by a band of wild raiders.”  


That laugh of his was contagious. Despite himself, Laurent smiled back.

* * *

The sun came out soon after, helping dry Laurent’s clothes at least to some extent. Annoyingly, Damianos chose to undrape his Akielon cloth - chiton, he called it - and let it flutter around his waist to dry faster as they rode their horses back towards Bazal. This had the unfortunate effect of leaving his entire upper half bare and displaying a well-muscled physique. Laurent tried not to look too much.  


Eventually, their surroundings of grassy hills gave way to the main road, which made their journey easier - until, in the vicinity of a grove of trees, they found the road blocked by a large fallen trunk.  


Laurent took in the situation. The storm had clearly brought down the tree and, judging by the size of it, it would certainly require the villagers lived in the area quite some effort to remove.  


It was also mildly risky for the entire province not to have the main road clear, for one never knew what emergency might appear.  


Laurent stared intently, already picturing the shortest route around the obstacle. To his surprise, Damianos dismounted from his saddle and strode towards the fallen tree, easily several times larger than him.  


“It's dangerous to have a road blocked,” he said. “I'll try to move it.”  


Was he _serious_? It would take maybe three farmers to move away that tree, or perhaps an ox.  


“You cannot.”  


Damianos looked intrigued. “Are you willing to wager so?”  


“You’ve yet to win a bet against me,” Laurent pointed out.  


In reply, Damianos put both his hands against the fallen tree, as if testing the weight of it, and the smooth muscles of his back rippled with the motion.  


Then he _pushed_. His shoulders were broad and well-muscled, his arms almost as large as Laurent’s own legs, and the grunts and huffs he made as he pushed against the tree reminded Laurent starkly of the sounds that pets would make during their performances. His jacket suddenly felt too tight.  


Slowly, inexorably, Damianos pushed the heavy tree away, rolling it off the main road and into the bushes that flanked it. Then he turned back, rolling his shoulders slowly. “And you said I couldn’t do it.” His voice, low and self-assured, made something tighten in Laurent’s belly.  


And then Damianos smiled, lazy and well pleased with himself. “You’re staring, Your Highness,” he said.  


It was a rather uncomfortable ride for Laurent back towards Bazal for a while. Still Damianos took pity on him, and began entertaining Laurent with stories of the Akielon capital at Ios and boyhood tales about himself and his friend, the Kyros of Delfeur. Reluctantly, Laurent found himself thinking that Akielos didn’t sound half that bad.  


By the time they came into view of the fortified royal palace of Bazal, it was early afternoon. The sun shone as if no storm, no skirmish and no exposure of firm, well-developed muscles had taken place.  


“By the way,” said Damianos, as he entered the courtyard in front of Laurent. “I won.”

* * *

For some reason, Damianos chose not to claim the winnings of his bet immediately. On the contrary, he invited Laurent to spar with him, apologizing quite openly for the unintended slight of assuming he wasn’t capable. It made Laurent think that Akielons, or at least this Akielon, were not as familiar with subterfuge as he had assumed.  


“And what of the intended slights?” Laurent couldn’t help but quip.  


Damianos’s laughter was even richer than his voice. Laurent gave himself a mental shake.  


A week later, it was time for Laurent, now in possession of several signed trade agreements and sufficient information about the Princess Ingrid, to start the return journey to Arles. Damianos, a usual presence at the court of Bazal, would stay on longer for the sake of Patran-Akielon relations.  


Laurent, who was in the habit of misdirecting everyone except himself (and sometimes Auguste), admitted to himself that the relief of being out of the presence of the Akielon prince was only matched by the regret that their interactions were now concluded.  


They had an informal goodbye in one of the inner courtyards, filled with a riot of summer flowers. Damianos mentioned it reminded him of a palace near Ios and rather clumsily segued into saying he had never visited Arles.  


For some reason, Laurent’s heart quickened its rhythm within his chest.  


Laurent was rather good at spotting untruths, if he said so himself, and there was no trace of artifice on Damianos’s face when he asked, “May I visit the Veretian court?”  


_May I court you?_ Laurent saw in his eyes. Their gazes held. He had to swallow before saying quietly, “Arles is at its best in spring.”  


Laurent’s only concern was Auguste’s reaction at meeting the man who had once wrested victory and a sizable province from him and was now attempting to win his brother too.

* * *

Next spring, when the Akielon delegation arrived, ostensibly to discuss a trade treaty, Laurent found he needn’t have worried. After just one sparring session, Auguste and Damen left the training grounds smiling and clapping each other on the back.  


_All was well_ , Laurent thought. Now he could focus on his budding relationship without political concerns. Damianos - Damen - and he might court freely, spar and ride and enjoy as many adventures as Laurent could drag them both into. He wondered if Damen was willing to don a disguise, and what he might do to persuade him if he wasn’t. Perhaps, they might even enjoy the quiet gardens of the Akielon summer palace Damen had described, and, one day, even share a life together.  


Laurent found that his lips had curved upwards slightly. Yes, perhaps so. And if all went smoothly, he might even get half of Delfeur as a courting gift in the process.


End file.
